A Heart Too Proud

by Laura London

  I could have told Lady Catherine that Lord Dearborne, far from admiring me, was convinced that I was either a spy or a Jezebel (probably both!). Lady Catherine ought to conserve her energies for scheming against the “Snow Queen” or whomever.

  All women should be as good as Mrs. Goodbody, bless her soul. What can I tell her about my gown? Before bed last night I had taken care to ask Roger not to mention my unconventional outing. He had simply agreed that no useful purpose could be served by telling anyone of it; he neither badgered me nor quizzed me about the incident. Roger is, as Mrs. Goodbody says, a real gentleman.

  There was a possibility that the note summoning me to the Cuckold’s Comfort had served the purpose of my correspondent. I had been invited to a lonely exploration of the most crime-ridden slums of London. Who could be interested in endangering me like that? It was almost useless to speculate upon. How can you understand so devious a mentality without more facts? The strangest aspect of the evening was that I had gone through such trouble to garner information about Henri’s death from a phantom source only to be enlightened by Lord Dearborne. There was nothing said about dishcloths and murder at the inquest. I wondered how the marquis rigged the autopsy. My guardian, Lord Dearborne, was indeed a man of influence.

  Just how far his influence could extend became clear a few days later when Christopher and I were making our good-byes to Lady Anne. The footmen were busily passing us, loading the carriage. Mrs. Goodbody was giving orders in her usual bustle, and we were standing to one side idly watching.

  “So, Anne, how did your pupil do these last dizzy weeks?” said Christopher.

  “I am proud of my little protégée,” she said, smiling at me in her warm way. “She received a proposal of marriage, which is doing rather well for a scant two weeks in the metropolis.”

  “She’s jesting,” I said. “Don’t listen to her, Kit.”

  “No, actually, you did. The marquis turned it down, of course.”

  To say I was surprised by this information would be an understatement.

  “He turned it down? I didn’t know anything about that. What has he to do with marriage proposals to me?”

  “He’s your guardian,” said Christopher. “He is doing his duty. You may not resent his interference when you find out who wanted your hand.”

  I gaped at him speechlessly.

  “Tell her, Anne,” he said.

  Lady Anne looked as though she were bursting with a secret. “Your radical friend, Godfrey.”

  “Godfrey?” I said weakly. Christopher threw back his head with laughter.

  “Depend upon it, that it’s because you’re the only one who can stand to listen to his tedious ramblings about what knowing fellows the Romans were.”

  “Don’t heed him, Elizabeth,” Lady Anne said, directing a quelling frown at her brother. “Godfrey’s too unstable to make anything but the most dreadful husband, besides the fact that his father is running through their fortune so fast that I doubt Godfrey will inherit one single slice of unencumbered property. But we will do better for you later, my dear. You must stay with my dear John and me for the next season. We must find a husband for you in simple charity to all other unmarried females!”

  I had always suppressed a tendency in myself to wonder about the future. In this case it was difficult. I had actually received a marriage proposal which was refused on my behalf because of the obvious unsuitability of the hopeful. What if I were to receive a proposal from someone more appropriate? I thought of all the men of my acquaintance and was able to turn up none I could envision marrying. Perhaps, perish the thought, there was a respectable, wealthy, landowning bore in my future who would make a proper proposal to me (ineligible as I am) through the marquis, and I would have to marry him and spend the rest of my life tending to the needs of a dull M.P. twice my age.

  Lord Dearborne would probably waste no time in getting rid of me now. I had never meant much to him. At worst, I was an expense and an annoyance. At best, I was a casual afternoon’s amusement, no more. Then I realized, frighteningly, that Lord Dearborne was more than that to me. Far, far more. Strangely, then, all desire to tell Lord Dearborne the truth about my night in the London slums died, stillborn. In fact, it seemed even wiser policy now to avoid all possible contact, all possible thought of him. I must forget his efficient compassion when I’d grown tipsy at Lady Doran’s ball; forget the comfort of the iron grasp that had carried me home after I’d been hit by Monsieur Sacre Bleu, and, especially, I must forget my numbed surrender under the honeysuckle bush. I tried to concentrate instead on his high-handed, arrogant ways. What right had he to assume the worst just because I came home at midnight, half-naked and escorted by one of the most conscienceless libertines in London? After all, there might have been a perfectly innocent explanation for it. The absurdity of the thought brought a surprised smile to my lips and I tried to refocus my attention on Lady Anne, who was speaking to me.

  “I’m sorry to see you go, Elizabeth,” she was saying. “But I have to take my leave of London as well, to be with my husband. I dislike leaving you in Nicky’s hands; although his intentions are honorable, I know he is not cut out for the guardian role. He has always tended to see women as playthings or, at best, playmates. Hold tight till our return from Europe, won’t you?”

  “It’s time to go,” said Christopher. The carriage was packed, the driver was in his seat, and Mrs. Goodbody was trying to quiet the twins. I could hear their excited squeals.

  “Christopher, you must take good care of Elizabeth. I know Elizabeth will take good care of you,” said Anne. She was brushing away a tear. I was touched and shed a tear of my own.

  “Elizabeth,” said Christopher, close to my ear, “Egbert and Godfrey are here to give their good wishes.” He was scowling.

  Indeed they were, standing nervously together at a little distance. Egbert was shifting from one foot to the other, clutching a nosegay. Godfrey was clearing his throat. I found myself feeling surprisingly sentimental toward the two of them. They had befriended me even though I was penniless, and Godfrey had even proposed to me. I felt this to be a point in his favor; everybody in London society married for money and status, and as much as Christopher liked to scoff at Godfrey’s republican beliefs, they did seem to be genuine. So I tried to be as gracious as possible in accepting the feminist tract, authored by Mary Wollstonecraft, that Godfrey held out to me, and accepted the nosegay from Egbert, and kissed them both. They were brave boys to court me past Christopher’s frowns and unkind remarks. When I took my leave, they made a misty pair.

  When the petite housemaid came forward bearing a handkerchief she had embroidered, it was all I could do to keep from crumpling into a sobbing heap. She had been so faithful, dressing my hair and seeing to my needs. And how I would miss the house as well. I had been there for only two short weeks and already it seemed like home. (I would especially miss the water closet.)

  Dressed in beautifully cut riding clothes, Lord Dearborne stepped out of the house to accompany us. His business had apparently been attended to. He stood by, watching the scene with a discreetly ironic and impatient air.

  Just then Mrs. Goodbody came up to me. “You know, Elizabeth, through all the packing, I never did locate that gray poplin frock, your old bonnet, or your reticule. Do you have any idea where they might be?”

  I knew I wasn’t going to get out of London without Mrs. Goodbody finding out about my adventure. I thought for a moment, and assumed a nonchalant air, though I was quaking inside. With an eye toward the marquis, I said:

  “I gave them to a beggar woman who came to the door. They were old, but I thought perhaps she could get some use out of them yet.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that was good of you.” I tried to breathe my sigh of relief inaudibly. I could see the ironic look on Lord Nicholas’s face deepen.

  As we left London. I looked out at the crowds and shuddered when I thought of how well I knew what went on down these streets after dark. And when we reac
hed the country, the air was so clean and easy to breathe, I became quite cheerful at the prospect of being back at Barfrestly where I could pick berries and play with Cleo without fear, if you discount ear-cracking explosions, murdered spies, and roughnecks who sneak up to bludgeon you into insensibility. I wondered how my acquaintances in Kent had fared during my absence. It would be nice to see Jane Colman again, and I would have to tell the vicar about Lord Elgin’s marbles. The vicar, while being of the school of thought which decried the forced importation of the marbles from their native land, would nonetheless be interested in anything I would have to say about their artistic qualities.

  We arrived late in the evening and hurried the twins into bed. In spite of our exhausted state, Mrs. Goodbody and I were happy to sit out on the steps to chat with Joe Hawkins. We were joined presently by Roger, who sat solemnly next to Mrs. Goodbody and sucked a clay pipe. While the cool breeze soothed our travel-tired bodies, we gazed at the stars, listened to the night birds calling, and caught up on local affairs. Joe Hawkins was somewhat abashed in our presence. He had never been to London and felt ill at ease among “swells,” as he called us.

  “Imagine our Miss Elizabeth amongst those swells,” he said to Mrs. Goodbody, shaking his head in wonderment.

  “And a fine lady she made, too,” said Mrs. Goodbody. “But tell us what happened in the village whilst we were hobnobbing.”

  After adoring Jane Coleman silently for years, the wheelwright’s son had asked her to marry him, so I had not been the only one to receive a proposal. I would have to get Jane’s reaction to that. Mrs. Plumford, the sexton’s wife, had a terrible attack of her usual inexplicable illness, but had been cured by Dr. Brent, who gave her some type of wonderful medicine he had invented himself. She took it every day, calling it “Dr. Brent’s Healthful Elixir.” And someone had seen the admiral walking again. At this bit of information, everyone chuckled cynically and I was glad I had kept it a secret when Christa had seen the ghost.

  We talked until night had taken a firm grasp on the countryside and hoots of hunting owls sounded in the forest. Before I went to bed, I took one last check on my sleeping sisters. On the small oak nightstand was Christa’s old hand mirror, the same mirror with the warped glass that made your nose look like it was planted between your eyebrows. I lifted the glass to see my reflection in the flickering candlelight—there it was, distorted as ever. The stylish pale-haired London sophisticate who had looked back at me from the expensive mirrors in Lorne House was unrecognizable now. The hazy, confused image in Christa’s glass would always be the real Miss Elizabeth Cordell.

  * * *

  The next few days passed quickly enough as we unpacked our trunks, dusted the cottage, and made gallons of horsemint tea to refresh the ladies of Mudbury who came to welcome us home. On our second afternoon back at Barfrestly, we had so many inquisitive visitors that the cottage buzzed like a London drawing room.

  Christopher obligingly carried chairs out of the cottage so the ladies could sit on the lawn and take advantage of the fanning breeze and the shade of an elderly maple. Mrs. Goodbody and the twins recited my triumphs in the fashionable world (greatly exaggerated, of course) while I blushed, disclaimed, and answered dozens of good-natured questions. I patiently endured Mrs. Plumford’s habitual lecture on the impropriety of accepting such extravagant hospitality from Lord Dearborne, and let the innkeeper’s wife twit me on my modish hairstyle. It was just like old times. My friend Jane’s upcoming marriage to the wheelwright’s son was discussed at great length too—the topics ranged from what to wear on the wedding day to what to wear on the wedding night. By the time the ladies had finished their frank conversation, Jane was as red as I had been earlier and we were glad to slip off together for a private exchange of confidences.

  It wasn’t until late that evening that we had cleared up after our company and got down to some of the real work that needed doing. I donned an old work dress, picked up my hoe from the barn, and went to weed my overgrown vegetable patch. On the way down to the garden I passed several of Lord Dearborne’s workmen-guards; they were still around, unobtrusive but plentiful. I set to in the garden with such vigor that I accidentally beheaded a dense bush of basil. What a relief it was to work again after so much exhausting play. When I saw Christopher riding his frisky chestnut across the lawn toward me I waved the drooping basil leaves at him and shouted that I hoped whatever Cook was preparing for his supper could be seasoned with basil.

  “Probably! Uncle Nicky had some friends from the War Office call on him today and they’ll be here for dinner, so Cook’ll likely knock off half a dozen main dishes and a mass of removals. I rode over to the Macreadys’ this afternoon—Jeffrey sent his regards to you. Oh, and his sister, Cecilia, too. What a quiz that girl is—you should have seen her gown, she looked like a tube of sausage. How did your tea party go?”

  “Dandy. My sisters drew a picture of my London partying that makes the career of the famous Gunning sisters pale in comparison. Everybody thinks I am the queen of the bon ton.”

  “Well, you are on the pathway to becoming the princess of the bon ton at any rate,” he said, smiling and saluting with his riding crop. “I must be off now, we’ll be seeing you. I want to hang about Uncle Nicky’s cronies and see what they are all up to today.”

  I took the basil up to the kitchen to give to the cook. I nodded hello to Thomas, the groom, who was sitting on the counter, swinging his dusty feet, eating some fresh bread spread with red currant jelly he had begged from the cook.

  “And how is Miss Elizabeth today?” he said in his cheeky way.

  “Miss Elizabeth is fine, thank you. How can she get some of what you are eating?”

  “Just have some of mine,” he said, tearing off a piece and offering it to me. We munched in silence for a moment, then he said, “The marquis be having company today. A fine carriage with some good horses from London.”

  “That’s right, he is,” I said.

  “Christopher says they be from His Lordship’s office.”

  “The War Office,” I said, enjoying my bit of bread.

  “To think that I’d be working for a man in the War Office, who makes important decisions on the fate of the country. Me mother would be so proud of me, rest her soul.”

  “Your mother is not living?” I asked him sympathetically.

  “She passed on some time ago,” he said, wiping a bit of jelly from his cheek. “I wager you’re happy to be back in your little cottage after that big strange house in London.”

  “Yes, I am, really. It isn’t so luxurious of course, but it is home.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Thomas. He let himself down from his perch and walked to the door. “I’m leaving now, Miss Elizabeth. Thank you for having dinner with me. It was a grand occasion.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He let the door slam shut behind him. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never before had such a long conversation with Thomas. He seemed rather familiar, but perhaps that was his manner. He was polite enough to give me some of his bread. I wondered for a moment about the meaning of “politeness.” I had been brought up to view polite people as being of good character. My recent experience showed this wasn’t always true. Lady Catherine had been charming to me the night of her ball and then told Lord Lesley some unsavory lies about me. And Lord Lesley, who had worse manners than Mohawk, had actually been kind to me, though in his own fashion.

  I thought more about this as I lay abed that night. People are not always what they seem. Unfortunately, this new insight into human nature was unaccompanied by any great insight into any of the problems that beset me. There were times when I felt a tremendous urge to run to Lord Dearborne and confide my reason for entering the London slums. It’s not that he would approve, but at least some of those ugly suspicions would be banished from his mind. Ever since that evening he had either ignored me completely or talked to me with less warmth than a longshoreman would to a sailor who has just dropped a weighty trunk
on his toe. I wanted him to like me again. No, that’s not honest. I wanted him to do much more than like me. But I wasn’t going to confide in him—if he chose not to trust me, so be it. Such thoughts are hardly conducive to peaceful slumbers. If I had been back in London with a room to myself, I could have lit a candle and read for a while, but that was impossible now that I was sharing a room with my sisters again. They would probably wake up.

  There was nothing for it. I could not sleep and I could not read, and I have always hated to lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I must go for a midnight stroll. It suddenly occurred to me what had happened the last time I had gone on a midnight stroll. I had overheard a bit of rude speculation as to my desirability, I had seen a ghostly intruder, and a French cook had been murdered. I paused a moment in debate. I decided finally that this particular set of circumstances would not occur again, so I threw on a shawl and struck out for the open spaces.

  I hadn’t been two steps out of the door when I saw something that made me cover my eyes and mutter, “Go away, go away.” History was repeating itself; there was a dusky figure flitting silently across the garden not twenty yards from where I stood. This was too much for me to bear. No one else in our household had to deal with such disturbances on a regular basis. I had followed the figure last time, and it had worked mischief when I lost track of it. I resolved to follow it more closely this time.

  Something was definitely there. When I uncovered my eyes, the ghost was there all right, so I observed it as carefully as possible under the circumstances. The admiral it was not. I remembered the way the admiral moved: his wide stance; his rolling stride, which slowed down as he got older but never lost its vigor completely. This ghost was being stealthy, running along close to the ground and occasionally lying down behind a bush or a tree. What did a ghost have to be afraid of? Other ghosts? I made the conclusion that I wasn’t dealing with the supernatural. My experience in the slums had shown me that live people could be frightening enough.